


Pinot Noir

by AQuietThinker



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Dunkirk Evacuation, Post-War, Post-World War II, Soldiers, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29499462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQuietThinker/pseuds/AQuietThinker
Summary: A series of one shots of Collins throughout the end of the war.Prompt: Wine
Relationships: Collins & Farrier (Dunkirk), Collins & Peter Dawson (Dunkirk), Collins/Farrier (Dunkirk)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 5
Collections: Wine/'How are you still standing?'





	Pinot Noir

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know little to nothing about wine. Most of the ones I put in this fic are french wines from Bordeaux, and thats all the information I can muster up.
> 
> Thanks to Count_Akwardness for editing! <3
> 
> Prompt: Wine

The first taste of wine he drank after the war was a green colored bottle with no label and a half destroyed cork, which made it difficult to open even with the sharpest blade of his switchblade. Plenty of younger lads had gone through the many empty cellars of abandoned farms, all dotted in their path through the countryside towards the French coast. A few of the remaining farmers, or those who were finally returning home once the news of victory had swept over France, had merely offered them small tokens of appreciation. Small pieces of hard cheese wrapped in paper, dusty bottles of acid beer and fruit collected from the remaining trees.

Younger soldiers, mostly Americans, accepted these gifts happily and even had the audacity to feel offended whenever a small town refused to look at them. 

However, Collins understood these private villages more than the merrier people. War had left a path of acid on the once golden lands, a taste that would take months, if not years, to erase. 

He could also understand, even if not completely empathize, with the young soldier boys. To them this was all new- they were fresh and ready to fight, had found a land nearly conquered by their armies with little to no resistance. They enjoyed being treated as heroes rather than strangers in foreign land.

As much as he would have liked to, Collins could never bring himself to be jealous of them. The few remaining officers from his time did, always lamenting on how the boys had swooped in to steal all glory without any suffering.

But he himself never complained. He could just keep flying until becoming stranded miles from any base, only to be picked up and taken back over and over.

One day, weeks after victory, the squadron he had followed was finally called home, and as they waited in the coast village, two young girls walked around the camp with wide baskets of gifts. The smallest one, with dark hair and a pair of green eyes, had smiled up to him and offered the bottle on the bottom of her basket.

He would have felt guilty of refusing, and had taken it with a smile, patting her shoulder before she ran back to the other locals with the empty basket.

After a few tries, he managed to make the cork fly out in three separate pieces, pocketing its destroyed parts for no specific reason. He took a swing from the bottle, and nearly spat most of it out.

The next gulp was equally as acidic, but he was able to swallow it. 

He could see the girl watching him with curiosity from the corner of his peripheral view, eager to catch his reactions. Hopefully she had not noticed his near choking at the first try of the beverage. He smiled, mostly to please her and took another small sip. 

Her smile was missing a tooth, but it shone like the sun when he gripped the bottle and softened his expression with gratitude.

Her happiness was his only priority at the moment, and, in the minutes that stretched to infinity during the soldier’s stay at the coast, it was just enough to make him forget.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Unlike many other officers or older soldiers, he didn't fall into the sweet cruse of alcohol. He had never been much of a drinker before, and even though his home before the war had always been complete with a bottle of Port or a few rounds of Pinot Noir, he only drank it when friends were around.

After he moved to Weymouth, alcohol was still rare throughout the coast of Britain, and was less missed by many of the civilians as other lacking supplies. 

Mr. Dawson invited him over for dinner at least once every two or three weeks, offering a rationed serving of whiskey bottles he had stored away. They celebrated Peter's birthday and Dawson's anniversary with wine, which reminded him of the acrid taste of the spoiled bottle in the french coast months earlier.

During Mrs. Dawson's birthday they gathered with a few other friends, and while the chat was welcoming and the food delicious, Collins felt disconnected. He excused himself to the garden, fumbling with a cigarette until it left a small trail of smoke and his lungs relaxed. 

Adapting as a civilian was difficult. He enjoyed his job at the docks and eventually at the Dawson’s store, liked long walks and furbishing his smaller flat, but his heart ached.

He missed his pilot.

“Jack?”

Peter had appeared next to his shoulder, and had he not heard the footsteps, the boy would have had to avoid a nasty hit and a flinch from Collin’s involuntary reactions. The boy, no, now a man old enough to be a soldier, was holding two cups of wine, one hoisted up to his level. He took it with a grateful nod.

After taking a sip he smiled. “Merlot?”

“One of the sailors brought it with him yesterday. Mum insisted for you to take some, she… thought you might like it.”

He smiled. “It does taste really good.”

“You have a lot of experience with wine?”

Peter's eyes widened slightly, in a manner that indicated he was eager for a story. Collins liked telling the boy stories, though not at all times when Peter prayed about darker topics.

“Partially. My mother liked Merlot a lot.” he explained, watching the liquid kiss the side of the glass as he motioned his wrist in circular movements. “From the regions of Bordeaux. I went there with her once, as a child.”

When he did not continue he could feel Peter nod, acknowledging that the story had come to an end. They stood in silence for a while, and he took another tentative sip, enjoying how the sweet flavour flooded his senses.

“I, I know its not in my place to ask-”

“But you’ll ask anyway.”

Peter scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. I… you still believe he’s coming back, right?”

His heart clenched. The temptation to reprime the boy for asking such personal questions would have won over him months ago, but by being unofficially adopted by the family after his self-isolation as a veteran, it was only natural for Peter to worry about him. 

He thought of Farrier, letting himself savour the memory for a few moments before shutting it down. Melancholy would only spoil the mood for celebration if he allowed himself to wonder about the pilot for long, but at the moment it was only him and Peter and a cup of merlot.

They had not heard anything. Mr. Dawson and a few of the neighbors asked constantly around for the fate of war prisoners, but there were nothing but vanishing rumours. He himself asked many times before being honorably discharged, and lingered on the question for a minute or two with other soldiers he met.

The memory of Farrier was distant but clearly there, coming in broken bits that he pieces together, mostly at night, when he let himself drink or just indulge in memories.

He could picture strong hands, turtleneck sweaters, a terribly expressive face that quirked in smirks, cocky and wholeheartedly. But mostly he remembered the pilots eyes, always a storm of teal hues that held so much life in them.

“Jack?”

Whatever he said, Peter would believe, even if he kept his true feelings to himself.

“I truly hope so, Peter.”

He didn't notice the boy retreat, and only focused on the glass, finishing it in one swing. Though he did not usually do so, perhaps tonight he'd let himself remember.

\- - - - - - - - - -

When they met at the station, once all war prisoners had been liberated, they locked in an embrace for longer the decency demanded. Nobody cared, for long after they had left the commotions were still in mid festivities, with tears of families being reunited.

They shared a Malbec bottle in his flat, and when the night had passed and Farrier had finally fallen asleep on his lap by the fireplace, Collins couldn't help but lament how the pilot’s eyes now seemed dull, haunted by phantoms no other men would understand. 

Perhaps Farrier was back, but a piece of him had died in the camps.

\- - - - - - - - - -

“Darling?”

The wind enveloped his coat, swishing it around and snapping against Farrier’s knees, who was leaning a hand against his arm, holding a glass of dark, purple liquid.

Inside the celebration was still lively- someone had begun playing the piano with old, army tunes and Peter was dancing with his newborn, earning happy gasps from the crowd. He wondered if Farrier had noticed his absence or had been planning on going outside for a moment to separate himself from the loud expressions.

He took the cup with a gloved finger and smelled it. “Cabernet sauvignon? How elegant.”

Farrier leaned against his shoulder, pressing the tip of his nose against his scarf. “It is a very joyous occasion.”

“Ah, so you only pamper your husband when there is a specific occasion to celebrate?”

The smirk that tugged on his lips wasn't mocking, but he enjoyed feeling Farrier roll his eyes.

“There's always a reason to pamper you, Jack.”

He leaned back against the man with a laugh, and finally took a sip of the drink.

“So,” said Farrier. “Are we drinking to remember, or to forget?”

Collins sighed softly and turned to lean his head against the pilot’s chest, bringing the cup up to his lips.

“No. Perhaps, just for tonight, we just drink to enjoy.”

The drink tasted sweet on his tongue, kinder than that of the basket by the coast, happier than the merlot, and more satisfying than the malbec bottle. Though he suspected the drink itself had nothing to do with it, rather the pilot by his side.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last minute but it works???? maybe??? Hope you all liked it. Again, I know nothing about wine except for the fact that it tastes good (in my opinion).
> 
> Drink responsibly.


End file.
